Crocodile Tears - Anthony Horowitz [48]
The two policemen looked at each other. The younger one seemed to notice Bulman’s briefcase for the first time. “What are you carrying?” he asked.
The question took Bulman by surprise. “Why do you want to know?” he snapped.
Before he could stop him, the first policeman had picked up the briefcase. “Do you mind if we look i nside?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do.”
It was already too late. The policeman opened the briefcase and was looking at the contents, his face full of horror. With a sense that his whole life was draining away from him, Bulman leaned forward. He knew what was inside: a notepad, a couple of magazines, pens and pencils.
He was wrong. The policeman was holding the case open, and Bulman could clearly see a kitchen knife, about fifteen inches long, the blade covered in dried blood.
“Wait . . . ,” he began.
The two policemen acted incredibly quickly. Without even knowing quite what had happened, Bulman found himself facedown on the sidewalk with his arms gripped behind his back. He felt the metal edges of the handcuffs bite into his flesh as they clicked shut. The first policeman was back on his radio, talking rapidly. Seconds later, there was a screech of tires and another police car drew up. More uniformed officers surrounded him.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .”
Bulman realized that he was being told his rights, but the words didn’t quite register. They were booming in his ears. He felt himself being picked up and propelled toward the car. A hand was placed on his head to stop him from banging against the door frame. And then he was inside, being driven away at speed. They had even turned the sirens on.
An hour later, Bulman found himself alone in a bare brick interrogation room with a window set so high up, it showed only a small square of sky. They had taken his fingerprints and a swab from the inside of his mouth, which he knew would be used to check his DNA. There were two new officers sitting opposite him. They were older and more experienced than the men who had made the arrest, heavyset and serious. They had introduced themselves as Bennett and Ainsworth. Ainsworth seemed to be the senior of the two, bald, with small, hard eyes and a mouth that could have been drawn with a single pencil line. Bennett was slightly younger and looked as if he had recently been in a fistfight. He was holding a file.
Bulman had been given a little time to collect his thoughts. He had worked out what he was going to say. “Listen to me,” he began. “This is all a stupid mistake. The way you’ve treated me is outrageous. I am a well-known journalist, and I’m warning you—”
“It’s good to see you, Jeremy,” Bennett interrupted.
“That’s not my name.”
“Jeremy Harwood. Did you really think we wouldn’t find you?” Ainsworth laid the file on the table and opened it. Bulman saw a black-and-white police photograph. Once again he recognized himself. But it had this other name underneath it.
He drew a breath. “My name is not Jeremy Harwood. My name is Harold Bulman.”
“Harold Bulman is dead.”
“No.”
“We’ve already analyzed the blood we found on the knife in your briefcase. It’s Bulman’s. You killed him.”
“No. You’re making a mistake. This is all wrong.” Bulman fought for control. How could this nightmare be happening?
Ainsworth flicked a page in a file. There were fingerprints—ten of them in a row—and what looked like a chemical formula. “We’ve checked your DNA and your fingerprints, Jeremy. They all match up. There’s no need to pretend anymore.”
“You escaped from Broadmoor two months ago,” Bennett said.
Broadmoor? Bulman blinked heavily. That was where they sent the most dangerous prisoners in the country, the ones who were considered criminally insane.
“Why did you kill Harold Bulman?” Bennett asked.
“I . . . I . . .” Bulman tried to find the answer, but the words wouldn’t come. Something had happened to his thinking process. He was aware that there were tears trickling down his cheeks.
“Don’t worry, Jeremy,” Ainsworth said. He sounded almost kind. “We’re going to take you